With his buoyant nature it was impossible for Douglas Briggs to remain steadily depressed. There were moments when he felt sure that the trouble between his wife and himself would suddenly disappear. Some day, when he returned home, she would meet him in the hall or on the stairs, and by a look, a gesture, would let him know that she had forgiven him. Then he would take her in his arms, and all the anguish of the past few weeks would be over. They would be dearer to each other on account of it, closer, tenderer companions. She was in the right, of course, but she would see that he had been forced to do what he had done; that his sin had not been nearly so great as it seemed to her, and that he was going to pay for it; that he had paid for it already, and he would make ample amends in the future. Helen Briggs, however, cherished no such illusion. She could see no way out of the difficulty. It was not merely that her respect for her husband had gone; she was bitterly disappointed and hurt. She had decided never to speak to him about Franklin West’s insult, but it was her husband’s unconscious participation in it that caused her the deepest humiliation and resentment. On the other hand, the very cruelty of her sufferings deepened both her pity for her husband and her love. The thought of leaving him now made her feel faint. She wished to stay with him and to be more to him than she had ever been. But in his presence she felt powerless; she could not even seem like herself. She accused herself of being a depressing influence, of adding to his burden. During the next few days, in spite of the heat that continued to be severe, Helen worked hard helping to close the house and to prepare the children’s Summer clothes. Dorothy began to be irritable, and Jack had developed an affection of the throat that frightened her. The doctors told her, however, that the boy would be well again after he had been for a few days in the pure air of Waverly. It was a relief to her to worry about Jack and to care for him, just as it was a satisfaction to go to bed exhausted at the end of each day. On Friday afternoon Douglas Briggs returned home early. “I sha’n’t be here for dinner,” he said. “I’m going to a committee meeting at Aspinwall’s house, and it’ll last till evening, probably. Anyway, he’s asked me to stay for a stag dinner. His wife’s away, you know.” “Aren’t you too busy to go with us to-morrow, Douglas?” Helen asked. “You’ve not had a minute to yourself this week. Miss Munroe and I can manage very well. If you like you can send Guy down.” Briggs hesitated. “It _is_ a very hard time for me to leave,” he said, nervously stroking his hair. “I ought to be at the House to-morrow morning. But I didn’t want you and the children to stay till Monday. It’s so hot here----”